


Collaborative Bonding Rituals

by Guede



Series: Sustainable Management [11]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Bondage, Business Trip, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Holidays, M/M, Multi, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Phone Sex, Polyamory, Sex Toys, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:38:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5900362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John basically fails at Valentine’s Day, and business trips, and yet he has a pretty good week anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collaborative Bonding Rituals

Maybe it’s because of how they got together in the first place, but Chris and John have an awful lot of sex outdoors for two guys with mostly-grown children and kind of dodgy knees.

Well, honestly, Chris’ knees hold up a lot better than they should, and sometimes John’s tempted to ask whether that’s the werewolf blood in the man. “Not that I’m complaining, _fuck_ , fuck, you look so good like this,” he pants into Chris’ back. “So good, shit, just—’m almost—”

Chris jerks under him, hands wrapped white-knuckled tight around the ropes tying his wrists to the floor. And okay, Chris having an SUV that’s tricked out for hunting just makes it way too easy sometimes. Just get him in the back, spread him out, use those metal rings screwed into the floor. John doesn’t even have to ask; Chris hooked his own fingers through those rings, straining back against them as he fucked himself open on John’s hand, and then he had to go and _look_ at that rope he had coiled up on the corner, and hell.

“Please, please, I can’t, please, _John_ ,” Chris moans, shuddering up into where John’s nipping at his neck. His ass rubs urgently into John’s groin, rest of his body clenching down on John’s cock so John loses his grip on Chris’ sweaty, slick hip and has to scrabble at the floor for balance. Chris just shudders again, uncaring of the broken rhythm, the knee John’s accidentally shoved into his calf. “Please, I can’t, I can’t, I need to—”

“Then go ahead,” John says. He gets his hand braced against the floor, then pushes up till he can feel Chris’ buttocks flattening between them, holding them in place with his free hand. He can’t get to Chris’ cock like this, can just feel the air stirring from where it’s slapping against the man’s belly, but he thinks they can manage things anyway. “Come on, Chris, it’s fine, just—oh, good, fuck, you sound so good—”

It’s been a while since John played like this, and when he was doing it for work, he always felt kind of silly trying to put on an act. Saying stuff pretty close to what he’s saying now, telling Chris how gorgeous he looks, how good he’s gonna feel when he comes, and it’s not like stings always involved unattractive people. Some of them, even Claudia had kidded John about maybe hitting them up after the mission was over.

But none of that was even close to this, to Chris bowing under him, crying out like that, his thighs shaking against John so hard that John can feel it skittering his knees across the floor. The man _is_ gorgeous, all lean, efficient muscle and clean lines, and he’s just laying all that out for John, and John never, ever felt like he wanted someone tied down just so he could keep them, the possessive thing has never done it for him, but—damn, does he get now why it works for some people.

And does he not mind in the least that Chris is one of them. Chris is going limp under him, rings clinking as the ropes slacken, and John has to struggle some to keep his own balance. He can feel his own climax tightening him up, but he twists his head forward till he can get his chin over Chris’ shoulder, and then he makes sure he scrapes his teeth across the side of Chris’ neck before he comes.

Chris bucks roughly against him, making harsh guttural noises, then goes soft as John does his best to not just flop onto the other man. They’ve got a tarp and their coats under them, but that’s no featherbed, for sure, and John knows they’re going to be cracking open the first-aid kit anyway for the rope burns.

“’re fine,” Chris mutters, pressing back into John. He moves his head just enough to look at his wrists, then lets it drop back as John kisses the back of his neck, slides a hand under him. When John wraps that hand around Chris’ cock, Chris shivers and then lets that go into a lazy stretch that for one insane second really makes John think about another round. “Had worse, don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah, of course you have,” John snorts. He nuzzles in behind Chris’ ear, in case the man takes that the wrong way, but Chris just stays slack, his eyes closing as he tilts his head into John’s mouth. “I need to get those off you.”

“Yeah,” Chris agrees. Not that he moves, or does anything except start purring.

It’s not quite a were purr, doesn’t have that bass timbre to it—Derek’s can sometimes make the plates rattle, if he and Stiles have forgotten the rule about leaving the kitchen counters out of it—but it’s still got that gentle rolling feel to it that just does stupid things to John’s gut, getting it tight and hot at the same time. And Chris absolutely knows that now, with the way he’s tucking his head down so John can’t see the corners of his mouth curling up. He knows exactly what that does to John and to Melissa, and if John wasn’t so pleased to see the guy showing a little initiative, he’d be annoyed.

“We’re gonna be late.” John drags his hand out from under Chris and reaches for one of the ropes. Maybe he can’t bring himself to actually pick his hand off of Chris, and ends up petting the whole length of Chris’ torso and arm in the process, but he is trying. “You’re gonna end up showing up at Mel’s looking like—”

Chris rolls his eye back to look at John, a little glint of mischief in it. “Like I got fucked in the back again? You think she’s gonna care?”

The damn rope’s a couple inches out of reach. If they moved themselves up, John could grab the end and pull out the knot, but Chris is a lot of happily dead weight, and John’s not quite up to spoiling that yet. 

“You sound like you want me to leave you back here,” John says. He pauses, feeling that little shiver in Chris, all the way down to where Chris is still stuck back on his cock, and then snorts as he presses his face into the back of Chris’ shoulder. “It’s not a very hunter position, Argent. All looped down in your own car, it’s like you went out and your target got you, and you’re the one getting brought back like a trophy.”

That gets him a hitch and a bitten-off, sucked-in breath, and hell, but John just can’t help himself around Chris sometimes. He’s still got his hand up and he can’t get the rope where it’s knotted around the ring, but he can get it where it’s around Chris’ wrists. He nudges the coils, getting more inhales from Chris, making the man squirm some, and then drags his hand back down Chris as Chris moans lowly, ass tightening around John’s…it’s limp, he’s not getting back on the horse that fast, but damn, does his cock have to think about that one.

“Fuck, Chris, seriously, I’m not even—and you make me think about it,” John mutters. “Just drive you over to Melissa’s like this, drive you over and let her come out and look, and _fuck_.”

“She’d like it, you know that,” Chris half-groans, half-laughs. He’s all yielding, the way he’s shaping himself back against John, making the rings clatter as he drags against his bonds, but the shit coming out of his mouth. “She’d egg you on. Maybe she’d talk you into leaving me in here the whole meal. You could just bring out the food and eat around me, and maybe just—just shove one of your toys in me, in here—” he bears down on John’s cock again “—save me for after. Have me with her pie.”

John swears and clutches at the man, shaky even though they’re lying down, and then he fucks a little into Chris. With his soft cock and aching knees and everything, and even so, Chris hitches back into it like it’s real, like they really are going again, with a little, throat-catching noise that just kills John.

“Oh, fuck, okay.” John presses his forehead into Chris’ back and tries to get his breath back. Then he swears again, thinking he hears Chris about to say something. “Oh, no, shut up, I swear to—I’ll gag you, Chris, I will damn well gag you if you don’t—”

Chris whimpers and John just—almost bites him, forgetting that’s Chris under him. Then, with an effort that’d get him a medal of honor in any other context, John pulls his head up and braces himself, and eases out of the other man.

“John,” Chris says, voice faltering. He’s complaining but it’s so achy, the way he does it, that John can’t even start to be irritated.

“Yeah, yeah, sssh. Just let me…” John tries not to look down as he shuffles up and starts unknotting the ropes, but Chris keeps shifting around, and finally John puts one hand back and rubs it over the back of Chris’ neck to still him. 

Which means he takes a little longer to get the knots out, but finally he’s got those, and he’s cracking open the first-aid kit when he glances over and Chris is just folded up there against the back of the driver’s seat, all loose limbs and ruffled hair, absently sucking at one of his pinked wrists. Chris meets John’s eyes and his own eyes widen a little—he still does that, look surprised at how bad they want him—and then he snorts into his hand. Pulls that away from his mouth and offers it to John and John just hopes they don’t get into a wreck on the way home.

It’s even worse when he starts salving and bandaging up the rope burns, and Chris decides to slide over and curl up next to John, laying his head on John’s shoulder and just looking so comfortable like that. He’s completely naked, and John’s still got most of his clothes on—just the coat off—and something about how relaxed he is about that, like he’d just sit like that all day if John wanted, it just does things to John.

“She’s gonna keep you in the garage just for making us late,” John says, trying to concentrate on not cutting off Chris’ circulation. “We really have to get going, or I’m gonna have to go straight home, and the last time I skipped town without saying bye to her….well, look, you just don’t do that to Mel.”

“We’re not that late,” Chris says. He shifts his head against John’s shoulder, suddenly tensing. Then he lifts it. He looks at John, then makes a face and turns away, running his hand through his hair. “Yeah, no, I’ll…where’s my shirt?”

John digs behind himself and pulls that out, and then helps Chris get it on. Their hands run into each other because Chris is hurrying all of a sudden, and Chris curses and jerks his back. Then looks up sharply when John grabs his wrists again.

“Well, we’re not gonna make it if you’re getting ideas again,” Chris says dryly.

“I wasn’t till you opened your mouth,” John says. He lets Chris laugh, listening to how that’s still a little tight, and then lets go of one hand, but keeps hold of the other, sliding his grip onto Chris’ forearm to avoid the bandages. Then he shifts forward onto his knees, stifling a hiss as those protest, and fishes Chris’ jeans out of the other corner. “That why you’re clingy today?”

“What?” Chris says. He sounds like he doesn’t know what John’s talking about, and looks like he knows exactly what and he’s hating himself for it.

John winces. “Okay, bad choice of words. I didn’t mean—”

“Your job’s your job,” Chris shrugs. He takes the jeans from John and slowly levers himself back onto one hip. Looks a little puzzled when John still doesn’t let go of his arm, but then just dismisses that and starts maneuvering around it to get his pants on. “And I’m not going to get in your way about it, John. That’d just be stupid, and—”

He slips a little, so John grabs him around the waist. And then pulls Chris back against him while he’s at it; he’s not exactly delicate and Chris winces and twists his hips some, but then settles back against him. Then tries to sit up, only to tremble when John kisses the side of his jaw.

“I sounded like an asshole, sorry,” John says. “I just meant, if you’re worried or something—it shouldn’t be a big deal. Just routine Service bullshit. No family horning in, no pack politics, just budget crap and face-time with my higher-ups.”

“Yeah, I know, that’s what I’m say—” Chris cuts himself off, then sighs. He chews his lip before abruptly turning and pushing his face into the side of John’s head. “I’m _not_ going to be the shit who hates you for a business trip.”

John starts to say something, then thinks the better of it and just pets Chris’ hip for a few seconds. Chris makes a rough, irritated sound, but keeps pressing against John’s head. He has a couple sharp breaths, and then a slower, lower one.

“I don’t think you ever really hate me,” John says.

“You’re such an asshole sometimes, Stilinski,” Chris says. He puffs a laugh against John’s neck and it’s a little short, but it’s genuine. “Yeah, okay, so…it’s not like I see you every day anyway. And…and…it’s not like I’m going crazy getting jealous, thinking you’re going to paint the town red while you’re there or something insane like that.”

“You’re just gonna miss me and my asshole ways some,” John says, kissing Chris’ temple. He feels the man start and kisses Chris again, on the temple. And then on the mouth when Chris lifts his head. “It’s not exactly a bad thing to hear, you know.”

“Well, Mel was saying your ego doesn’t need any more feeding, it’s healthy as is,” Chris says, mouth twisting wryly. But he’s tipping his head for another kiss, that and losing some of the tension in him. “You’re back at the end of the week. That’s just three and a half days, John. I’ll _maybe_ be up to messing around again by then.”

Not the way he’s kissing, he isn’t. He bites at John’s lip a little, just enough to get John going at him, and then he hangs off John’s shoulder, moaning as John rolls his tongue around Chris’ mouth.

“And here I thought you and Mel were gonna catch up since I’m not keeping you in the woods all night,” John says, pulling Chris closer. He slides his hands up under Chris’ shirt, sucking at Chris’ lower lip, and then just keeps himself from undoing the buttons. “Shit. Okay. You need to get off me.”

“You keep saying that,” Chris snorts, but he obligingly peels off.

This time John makes himself move to the other side of his car. He gets the wipes out of the first-aid kit and tosses one to Chris, then cleans himself up and gets in the driver’s seat before he loses track again. Occupies himself with checking his messages, and then texting an apology to Melissa that she’s not buying at all.

“You sure you can drive?” Chris says, climbing into the passenger seat.

John looks up, and then watches as Chris gingerly twists himself down. “I think I can manage better than you,” he says. “You want to sit on my coat?”

“I hate you,” Chris says, tossing his keys over.

“Sure,” John says. He starts the car and then does his best to be careful as he pulls back onto the road. But the car still bounces some, and every time it does, Chris hisses under his breath. And John’s cock is starting to revive. “Shit.”

Chris laughs at him, then turns so he’s sitting sideways in his seat, weight on his hip, facing John. “Yeah, I’ll be feeling that till you get back.”

“I hate you,” John says, shifting around. “But I guess that was your plan, then.”

That’s a little too soon. Chris goes quiet and John silently curses himself, and searches for something to say. He’s not too thrilled about the trip’s timing either, frankly, but if he says that, he’s afraid he’ll just come off as pandering. He’s a lot better at figuring Chris out now—and Chris is a lot better about his issues—but Chris’ pride is still a tricky thing.

“Yeah, well,” Chris finally says. He glances out the windshield, then runs his hand over his head as he looks back at John. “You said you were pretty booked and all. If you can’t get a second off for a call, I can live with it.”

John snorts to cover up his relief, and honestly, how relieved he is that Chris is even suggesting a call. “There’s this amazing new method of communication called texting, you know, you might have—”

“I _hate_ you,” Chris says, and then he pulls his phone out. “You know, Mel said she was wanting to go out, maybe I’ll take her to that new place that opened up on Ninth. We’ll text you pictures.”

“You’d better,” John says. Then he frowns. “Isn’t that place fancy? Coat and tie?”

“Yeah,” Chris says, and he’s grinning as he types. “Well, she was saying she loved the dress I got her for Christmas, but she doesn’t know when she’s ever going to get to wear it.”

John swears. “That dress?”

Chris is very smug. Not as smug as, say, a Hale, but enough so that John really wishes he didn’t need both hands on the wheel to avoid all the trees. “Yeah,” he says. “And I can get out that tie she got me.”

“I hate you,” John says. “You asshole, Argent.”

Chris laughs, and looks over at him, still a mess but so relaxed that John almost pulls over right then and there. “Sure,” he says. “We’ll see you Friday, John.”

* * *

Melissa mostly forgives them for being late, and making her reheat the dinner she’d cooked. Well, what’s left of it—the kids have already made their exit, regrouping at Lydia’s place for some school project, but not before Stiles cleaned out most of the arroz in Melissa’s arroz con pollo. To stretch it out, Chris whips up a quick batch of stir-fried vegetables, because even with a limp that’s got him constantly blushing from Melissa’s looks, the man has to insist on being helpful.

“I know, I know, but let him do it now and it’ll be easier for me to get him out later this week,” Melissa mutters as she and John sit and eat the pollo at the dining table. “And we really should go. Allison’s got some committee thing again, so she’s going to be over at Lydia’s again Tuesday night, and she and Scott are going out on Thursday.”

“Damn, really?” John says, dismayed. “And Wednesday he’s got his license classes, so he’ll be home late.”

Chris is a grown man, and one who’s handled a hell of a lot in his time, and it wouldn’t do him any good to baby him now. But he can’t sleep when Allison’s not home—understandable, considering her almost-kidnapping by her own grandfather—and when that happens these days, he’s gotten used to spending the night elsewhere, too. John and Melissa are both busy but between the two of them, they can usually make sure one of them is available.

“Yeah, I know, Scott actually offered to cancel their date when he realized,” Melissa says. She peeks over John to see if Chris is listening, and when she sees he isn’t, she drops back and pokes at her chicken. “I told him thanks, but no. I think it’d just make Chris guilty if the kids rearranged their Valentine’s—”

“What?” John says. He pulls his phone out to check, then winces. “ _Shit_.”

Melissa looks at him, and then smirks. “So don’t worry about me, I already ordered my usual pound of Mexico City chocolate.”

“Shit,” John says again, rubbing at his temple. “I knew there was another reason I should be pissed off about this trip.”

“If it helps, I’m pretty sure Chris wasn’t expecting a big bouquet and a bunch of balloons either,” Melissa says. She’s slightly more sympathetic, but still smirking. “Relax, John. I’ll make sure he doesn’t pay for dinner, and you can just pay me back when you get home.”

“Yeah. Yeah, no, I’ll…” John reaches for his wallet, then realizes he left it in his coat “…remind me when I leave, and I’ll slip you something now. Enough to get yourselves a good bottle of wine, at least.”

She laughs at him, setting her chin on her hand. “I _said_ I was taking him out, and I did manage to get the day off after. Trust me, I’ll get him good and liquored, and maybe we’ll remember to call you.”

John rolls his eyes, because he’s been on the receiving end of more than few of Melissa’s tipsy calls, and Melissa falls all over herself giggling, to the point that she has to lunge out of her chair and latch onto his shoulder to keep from falling off. Her hair gets in John’s mouth and he brushes it out of the way, and gets her face turned up at him, all flushed and happy, and maybe they get in a couple kisses before Chris brings the vegetables out. It’s all right, John grabs him before he can try and perch on the hard wood chair like the stoic sufferer he is, and they catch him up. And it’s a pretty good dinner.

* * *

It’s kind of a shitty morning the next day, but that’s nobody’s fault but John’s. He left Melissa’s place at a decent hour, checked his luggage and briefcase a last time, and then checked that the wards were solid and neither of Stiles’ betas had broken any locks lately. And then he’d gone to bed without remembering to set his alarm back an hour, because government work might get you a good travel discount but it can’t do anything about the terrible flight times.

“I feel like I should run down the list now, just to make sure you didn’t leave a file or accidentally pack my lunch or have bloodstains on your socks,” Stiles says, hustling with John out the door.

They both jerk to a stop as Peter’s car screeches into the driveway. John can see Peter wincing behind the wheel—can’t blame the man, it’s a very nice car to be treating like that, and unlike Derek Peter seems to believe cars are more than just top speeds—but he doesn’t have the time to even check whether there are skid marks. He just hurries down the drive, yanks open the door and then bundles himself and his bag into the backseat.

A second later, with the wheels already rolling, Stiles throws himself into shotgun and then twists around to hand a thermos and John’s briefcase to him. “You have the file on the summit, right?” Stiles says.

“You didn’t look in here while you had it?” John says, sticking the briefcase between his legs.

Stiles rolls his eyes, then bats at Peter as Peter attempts to both make a left-hand turn with one hand and to drag Stiles’ seatbelt over him. “I had it for all of three seconds, Dad. So…okay, yeah, it looks like you packed everything you need there. But what about the other stuff? Did you remember your gun?”

John looks at him.

“You’ve _totally_ done that, don’t look at me, and then you always complain about the loaners they give you,” Stiles says. He bats at Peter again, then smushes down as Peter stubbornly keeps trying to hook the seatbelt across his back. “What about the taser? Did you remember to charge it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I saw the green light when I unplugged it,” John says, cracking open the thermos. He sniffs once, then nods approvingly; Stiles got him coffee from Peter’s pot instead of Derek’s instant stuff. “And sit down before you get us ticketed, Stiles. There’s a reason why I’m not sitting in Derek’s Camaro and you’re making it a little useless.”

“Are you saying Peter drives better?” Stiles says. He reluctantly grabs the belt from Peter and clicks it into place, but doesn’t turn around. “Those are totally fighting words, Dad, and we’re all just lucky that it’s not worth the trouble waking Derek up and watching him do his zombiewolf act in the bathroom.”

Peter laughs. “Of course, even when he’s fully awake, he tends to consider traffic regulations to be challenges.”

Stiles flicks a look sideways at him. “And you don’t?”

“I think I have a little more respect for the law, Stiles,” Peter says dryly. “They’re guidelines, at least.”

“Well, it’s a new year, we got a new quota for getting out of citations,” John mumbles around slurps of coffee. Then he catches the look on Stiles’ face and lowers the thermos to glare at his son. “That isn’t a challenge either, kid.”

“Dad! I’m a federal employee, I took an oath to uphold the law!” Stiles says, with a dramatically offended gasp. He holds it for a second, while Peter attempts to hide his snigger in a cough, and then narrows his eyes at John. “Anyway. Back to business. You remember your taser power cord?”

“Yeah, and my phone charger, and the portable power unit you gave me, _and_ my back-up phone,” John says. He drinks the rest of the coffee, screws the lid back on, and then hands the thermos to Stiles. “And your little bribe for the R &D folks.”

Stiles makes a face over the thermos. “It’s not a bribe. Exchanges of information are an integral part of a healthy scientific community, and if Lydia and I just happen to have a couple flash drives of very interesting data that they might want in order to justify sending us their latest on sonic weaponry, well, that’s being a good scientist. Dad.”

John wipes off his mouth and then checks his phone, just in case something’s come up overnight at the station. Which is usually what happens when he’s about to leave town, but for once he’s in luck and the night shift reports nothing special. “Yeah, well, if people’s earbuds start exploding, we’ll all know who to ask first, is all I’m saying. So look, you don’t have any school—”

“I’ve got that trip to the museum but you already signed the waiver last week, I don’t have any exams, the lacrosse game’s at home, and the tree’s still a good week, at least, from waking up,” Stiles rattles off. “Also, Derek finished his soundtrack and Peter’s only got two meetings this week, so they’re ready and available if I need something.”

“And I promise that we’ll keep the runes in shape, and Derek will use the door instead of just ripping it off the hinges,” Peter says.

“You’re not going to just be in the house the entire time, are you?” After reminding the next ranger to top up the gas tanks in the Service truck, John puts his phone away and then reaches down to check that his briefcase has the security clearance tag attached. And rolls his eyes, sensing Stiles’ suspicious look on the back of his neck. “You two had better take my son somewhere nice and nonviolent for Valentine’s Day. I expect that out of you at least, Peter.”

Stiles sputters. “What? _Dad_. Maybe I want a little staycation, maybe that’s my idea of romantic, you can’t just judge based on the movies or TV or whatever candy- and flower-selling brainwashing stuff that mass media has fed you—”

“We’re having a nice picnic by the tree, and then we’re going to the midnight movie special, and _then_ we’ll be back home, and there will be no bloodshed, dead bodies, or other reasons to have to deal with the local authorities,” Peter says in a crisp, entirely unruffled voice. “Believe me, I don’t want an interruption either.”

“Huh,” John says, and then catches himself before Stiles picks up on what he’d really been getting at with that question. As is, Stiles looks a little weirded out before he remembers he’s annoyed at Peter for spoiling his rant build-up. “Okay, sounds reasonable. But if things _do_ get messy, or if anything serious comes up—”

“Yeah, Dad, I’ll call. I’ll even do it before I fix the problem, I swear,” Stiles sighs. He slouches against the back of his seat, looking over its top at John. The fake irritation’s drained away, and while he still looks suspicious, it’s the kind of suspicious where he’s worried about John, and not about what John’s not letting him mess with. “I think I’m gonna be okay, really. Laura’s back home again and she and Cora and Isaac are rotating on patrol, nobody’s gonna get near the tree. I mean. If that’s…”

That…actually hadn’t been what John was getting at, for once, and he feels bad for making Stiles think that. They’ve worked hard and long, and they’ve managed to not let Claudia’s death turn either of them into angry paranoiacs, and it’d be a real shame if Stiles started getting those vibes now.

“No,” John says. “No, I know. Just checking.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says, bouncing right back with a little long-suffering sigh. “Okay, well, I guess just relax and let Peter’s super abilities to follow traffic _guidelines_ get you to the airport on time. You don’t want to start off grumpy, Dad, you’ll never get through the trip if you land in D.C. like that.”

John smiles at his son. “Yeah. Thanks. And thank you, Peter.”

“Of course,” Peter says, flicking his eyes up to the rear-view mirror.

Stiles hangs his arm around his headrest, grinning, and for a second John tries to remember when was the last time he saw his son so relaxed about John leaving on business. A long while, he finally decides, and if he were a lesser man, he might be a little insulted. But no, he’s honestly just glad to see Stiles like that. It makes him feel a little better.

Not that, he thinks, he’s got any reason to be off the way he is. Stiles probably is right, and he’s just letting a small misstep change his whole mood. John shakes himself, trying to get a grip, and changes the subject to the lacrosse match. He’ll be better once he gets on the plane; just getting out of town is always the worst part.

* * *

 _I told you to stop thinking about it,_ Melissa texts him midway through the flight (because given past history with John’s out-of-town trips, the Service can damn well foot in-flight Internet charges). _It’s fine, I did manage to bring it up with Chris and neither of us was really expecting a big fuss._

 _So I should stop looking up e-cards?_ John sends back.

 _John Stilinski if you send me dancing hearts with cheesy music you’re grounded for a week._ Melissa drops her punctuation when she’s in a hurry. Or seriously annoyed with him. Or about to call him out on something. _Same goes for any giant stuffed animals or gimmicky balloons at work._

John coughs to hide his chuckle, then glances at his seatmate. Who’s still buried in his ebook reader, so John risks a smile as he types his reply. _What about a little potted cactus? They have some cute ones online._

 _I will take plants that I won’t kill, and Scott won’t accidentally trample on full moon nights,_ Melissa answers. She’s typing for a while after that, long enough to make him frown and check that he still has a good connection. _You’re going to lose all that goodwill if you send Chris a pot of wolfsbane._

He rolls his eyes; she must still be irritated with him. _Give me some credit. I was thinking a nice bottle of bourbon with a pink ribbon._

 _You’re awful and I already told you I would get him liquored up,_ Melissa tells him. _You should just worry about your meetings first. We can do something when you get back._

 _They’re not that bad._ John pauses, frowning again. _Are you worried about any of them? Did you hear something?_

Melissa doesn’t have to head to D.C. nearly as often as John—she has her annual training, but they usually do that somewhere in the western states, given where most of the medical support people are based—but she’s often got a better read on Service gossip than him. He and Stiles have moved around too much, and anyway, he’s not the greatest at staying in touch, so he’s just got a huge contacts lists, while she’s got real friends all over the country.

 _No,_ she immediately texts back. _Stop finding stuff to worry at, John. I’m sure it’ll all be fine._

 _Okay,_ he sends, after a second’s debate. He still feels like he’s missing something, not getting something right, but at this rate he’s just going to piss off the one person who will set him straight.

He should catch up on his paperwork anyway. There’s _always_ paperwork, and even if things go well back home, he fully expects to return to a couple minor incidents that need to be written up. If he doesn’t, he knows to scan his kid for signs of possession.

John’s got his laptop out and a rough draft of a monthly report opened when his phone buzzes again. He grabs at it and nearly knocks it onto the floor, making a racket. Wincing, he gives his curious seatmate an awkward nod, then settles back to read Melissa’s text.

 _You okay?_ she sent. Then there’s a gap of two minutes. _Because I can get on the phone after my shift. You’ll be at your hotel by then?_

 _I’m just going to drop off my stuff, I’ve got a dinner right off the bat,_ John tells her. _I’m good. You’re probably right and I’m overthinking stuff._

 _Well, if you’re sure,_ Melissa immediately texts.

John sighs and leans his head against the window. He lets his thumb hover over the keypad for a few minutes, then hits three letters: _Yes._

_Okay. Call you after dinner tomorrow. I mean before. Sorry, forgot about the time difference._

_Sounds good,_ John sends, and then he puts his phone on silent. Leans over his laptop, cracks a couple knuckles—his seatmate gives him another look over the ebook reader—and then gets down to being actually productive.

* * *

Trips to D.C. are usually because he’s getting called up to explain some fuck-up, or because he and Stiles are getting pulled into some fundraiser or hearing to show off how progressive the federal natural resources management policy is, what with de-classifying tree guardians and other environmental mages. This trip’s a little weird in that it’s neither; John’s just going in to tie up a couple bureaucratic loose ends related to a reactivated Nemeton, which are necessary but which aren’t exactly fire drills, and doing his regular check-in with his boss. And a lot of networking—he’s not all that fond of office politics, but he’s been around more than long enough to know not to neglect that.

But all in all, it should be a pretty lowkey trip. Sure, he’s booked up, but most of the meetings are with people he at least respects, and he’s looking forward to some good shop talk and maybe even getting some solutions for his designated hunter hole.

“Honestly, I don’t really want to fill it, but Chris said he doesn’t want it right now and I’m going to respect that,” he says. “I know the area’s been getting by, and the Hales are very active management partners, but with a live Nemeton I’m not sure how much longer we can do that. They’re going to be paying more attention to Stiles, and they should be. And in the meantime, we’ve got the whole rest of the county to deal with.”

“I see your problem,” Alan says. He pauses, and then smiles a little ruefully at his plate. “Well, if we’re going to be fair, I saw it before I retired and stuck you with it.”

John shrugs, even though he…pretty much agrees with that. He and Deaton have known of each other for years—okay, pretty much the whole Service has heard of the Stilinskis, while Deaton built his rep on being able to manage Talia Hale for a solid decade—but they haven’t actually interacted too much, other than a couple meetings when the office first changed hands. Since then, John’s settled into running the preserve some and while he still respects the man, he has had the time to wonder at a few of Deaton’s calls.

“That post’s always been tricky,” Alan goes on. “There’s the Hales, of course, but the guardian for that Nemeton has historically always played a very prominent role. Finding a hunter who satisfies both of them has never been easy.”

“I guess that’s why you figured you’d wait till there was another guardian?” John says. He considers what’s left of his steak, then decides he’d rather save the room for dessert. It’s cooked right and all, just the perfect shade of medium rare, but somebody forgot to salt it because it tastes like cardboard. “I am guessing here, by the way. I just—it’s a little…it seems a little…”

“If you’re trying to ask me why I did it, you can just go ahead,” Alan says, amused. He leans back and motions for the waiter to top up their glasses, then waves his hand at John, too. “No, no, this one’s on me anyway. I know what I left you with and the least I can do is buy you a few rounds. And answer your questions. The nice thing about being purely academic now is I can afford to do that.”

John smiles, but keeps a mental eye on the tab. He hasn’t heard too much that’s bad about Deaton, but a couple drinks and a dinner to one person is a small favor to another, and he doesn’t like strings on his gifts. “All right, then, why leave it open? Actually, since you’re offering, let’s back up and go with why the Argents in the first place? Because Chris is great, but—”

“Oh, Chris Argent would be a first pick for any office around the country, and even then the Service would have a hard time keeping our European friends from poaching him,” Alan agrees, with surprising firmness. Then he winces a little. “Well, if it weren’t for his family. The problem was always Gerard. Kate got most of the media attention, but he was really the source of the rot.”

“And what I hear, he wasn’t hiding it much, even before Richard Hale got lit up,” John says dryly. “You couldn’t have missed that.”

“And I didn’t. Neither did Talia, for that matter, or Evy. Sorry, I meant Stiles’ predecessor, Yvette—Richard used to call her that,” Alan says. “But Gerard’s wife Margot was a wonderful woman—I do see a lot of her in Chris—and she and Yvette were good friends. It was hard to get Yvette to see much wrong in the Argents, even after Margot died. And even then, she thought we might be able to just keep an eye on them. Lead them back to the path of righteousness, as it were.”

John raises his brows, though it’s not necessarily because he disbelieves Deaton. Yvette had been going senile near the end, which had ultimately damaged the tree so badly that Deaton had had to put it into hibernation before any guardians could be trialed. There are good reasons why tree guardians try and nominate successors as early as they can: the bond’s two ways, and while Nemeton guardians get a lot of health benefits over the average person, they’re not immortal.

“And I can tell you’re wondering why the rest of us would go along with it.” Alan drinks some of his wine, then shakes his head. “It wasn’t a perfect solution, but believe me, none of us ever thought it’d go how it did, and there weren’t—and still aren’t—many hunters with their pedigree. Anyway, Chris did turn out to be a good fit. I think we were hoping he’d get the French branch of the family on his side, and force Gerard and Kate to retire.”

“Yeah, well, that didn’t work,” John says. He picks up his glass and swirls the whiskey in it around, then puts it down without touching it. “So why didn’t you fill the slot afterward?”

“Because I didn’t want to lose the Hales completely. Simple as that.” Alan eats a few more peas, then slides his plate to the side so he can put his elbows up on the table. “Talia was incandescent at what happened to her husband and her son. She wouldn’t have tolerated any new hunters—she barely tolerated _me_ , and let me tell you, it’s very strange to have Peter telling his sister to not kill you. Although on the other hand, very few people were going to try their luck with a Hale alpha on the warpath, so I thought we might squeak by till things calmed down. I simply didn’t want to have the Hales and the federal government at odds on top of everything else.”

After a second, John picks his glass up again and has a couple sips. It’s been a couple decades since the government had to take out a full pack, as opposed to a lone rogue alpha—werewolves usually are good at suppressing bigger disputes before outsiders get wind of it—before John joined the Service, but Deaton would’ve been just starting out as an agent.

“I have deep love and respect for Talia, but I was doing a rotation in Washington when the Redclaw pack was eliminated,” Alan says, apparently sensing John’s train of thought. “I don’t care to ever see that again.”

“Talia doesn’t really strike me as the kind who’d renounce modern society and the U.S. Constitution, and try to proclaim her own country,” John can’t help saying. “But you did know her longer—”

“I thought I knew her.” Alan hesitates, then smiles wryly. “She’s not an extremist, but I certainly saw sides of her I didn’t think she had. It’s one reason why I retired early from field work. I knew we didn’t have the kind of trust you need for a good liaison—if she wasn’t listening to me, after years of working together…and we needed a new guardian. Just the Service wasn’t going to get her to pay attention. Honestly, John, I do look back now, from my nice teaching job, and I wonder if I was too cautious. But back then I genuinely thought that just trying to preserve the status quo was the safest option.”

“Yeah. Yeah, well, we all just try and do the best we can, while we’re in it.” John’s had enough moments himself that he can’t fault the man for trying and failing, so long as Deaton did try. “Anyway, it’s all water under the bridge, and I’ve just got to see what I can do now.”

Alan tips his glass to John, who lifts his and clinks them together. Then he settles back in his chair, obviously relieved to get off the subject. “Well, you’re not going to wait for Chris to come round, I take it.”

“He said not to wait for him.” That comes out a little sharp, and from the indulgent way Deaton smiles at John, he’s heard a few things. John fights down his urge to grimace, then pulls his shoulders straight and reminds himself he hasn’t swept that under the rug, and he’s not about to start now. “Look, I’ve got personal interests here, but most people would say that’s another reason to fill it.”

“Most people don’t work in the world we do,” Alan says dryly. “Not that I’ve been in your exact position, but pack relations are always so delicate anyway, it’s a rare time that you can afford to be a pure idealist.”

“Well, it’s not just pack relations. Sure, I understand about keeping Talia on board, but I have to think about the other people who’d be affected too. It’s not just the Hales’ private preserve,” John says, and this time the sharpness is intentional. He leans back in his chair and looks at Deaton. “You sound a little like you’re trying to talk me into talking to Chris. You and Talia still friends?”

An amused, very knowing smile comes onto Alan’s face. “We are, and yes, she’s mentioned that she’s changed her mind on him, but I promise I’m not doing her work for her, John. I’m just trying to say that, if you want my opinion, it’s better to put up with a little hardship now over getting a mediocre solution that you’ll have to solve again later.”

“All right,” John says slowly. He taps his finger absently against his glass. “Fair enough, I guess. And if I don’t go with that?”

“It’s your office now, not mine,” Alan says, spreading his hands. “We’ve all got to make our paths our own. Although I do still have many good friends in the area, and I’d like to help when I can, when that seems appropriate to you. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of suggestions from others about replacements, but if I may…”

John shrugs. “A good candidate’s always worth a look. I…can’t promise anything. Like I said, haven’t even made up my mind about whether I’ll open up a search or not.”

“Fair enough,” Alan says, smiling again. “I wouldn’t suggest anyone who I didn’t think would accept that.”

“Good. Well, shoot me their resumes, and I’ll look them over,” John says. “Oh, and thanks for the dinner. It was—”

“A little disappointing at these prices, if we’re honest,” Alan says, glancing at his discarded plate. “Although I hope the conversation fared a little better.”

He’s not a bad man, John decides, looking Deaton over. They might not make the same choices, if put in the same situations, but Deaton’s doing things as best as he thinks he can and John can respect that. It’s just…Deaton’s not really John’s style. “It was all right, and I did appreciate it,” he tells the man. “Anything you want me to pass on?”

“Just my sincere hope that things have improved,” Alan says. “And thank you, John. It’s a pleasure to see that the preserve’s in good hands.”

* * *

 _“He sounds kind of slick,”_ Stiles says.

“He’s not,” John says, rubbing the towel over his hair. He pulls his hand down and gives his cheek a pass, too, and decides that he’ll shave in the morning. And then makes sure his alarm’s set for the right time. “Not like I know you’re thinking.”

Stiles sounds like he’s eye-rolling. _“Dad, we ran into guys like that before we moved here, and anyway, it’s not good for Peter’s ego if everybody starts using him as the measuring stick. He’s smug enough—I heard that!”_

John pauses, the hotel clock in hand. “I thought you said you were in my bedroom.”

 _“Yeah, I was—I am, and the privacy wards are up, and I just stuck my head out because Peter’s showing Derek how to cook chicken paprikash and I thought I felt the anti-fire runes pinging. False alarm, by the way, we are totally safe and not burning anything except maybe the garlic,”_ Stiles says cheerfully. _“Okay, so Deaton gave you the dirt on the failed attempt to make Gerard Argent sane. Anything else?”_

The alarm’s good, so John puts the clock down and then stifles a swear as he knocks his shirt off the bed. He snags that from the floor and starts to put it back on the bed, and then remembers he’s about to settle in for the night and just moves that and the rest of his clothes over to the closet. “I just got here, Stiles. Big meetings aren’t till tomorrow.”

 _“Well, God, if you’re gonna call me all breathless just for stuff about how everybody misjudged Gerard, you can’t blame me for wondering where the five-alarm blaze is and seriously, Dad, nothing’s burning, I’m just big with the fire metaphors today.”_ Which Stiles says while sniffing loudly and then rattling around in what John thinks is his charms box. _“I’m kidding. Honestly, things good? Because they’re okay here, and if you really need me, Peter can always take me to the museum some other time. Those paintings aren’t going anywhere.”_

“Seeing as I haven’t seen anything yet that I need blown up or turned into a diplomatic incident, I don’t think D.C.’s got a real urgent need for you,” John says.

Stiles makes a noise like a wounded balloon. _“That hurts, Dad. Really.”_

“I think you’ll get better.” John closes his closet and looks around, and then remembers he needs to charge up his laptop battery. Except he can’t find where he stuck the cord, and he does think he took that out of his bag. “Anyway, I just called to check in.”

The damn room’s only so big, and it’s not exactly filled with furniture—it’s a nice location, but bare bones otherwise—and John still can’t find that power cord. He knows he packed it too, and…yeah, of course, he did take it out, but then he put it back in his bag. Damn it.

 _“It’s all good, Dad,”_ Stiles says. He sounds a little less melodramatic. Also, like he’s hurrying down the stairs. _“It’s nice and peaceful and boring, and I’m okay. I’m still gonna be here when you get back.”_

“That’s not what I—” John says, and then he sighs. “Yeah, I know. Thanks. And look, let me just—”

 _“Thanks for telling me about what Deaton said, too,”_ Stiles breaks in. More than a little awkwardly, rushing out the words like he does when he’s getting uncomfortable. _“It’s nice to not have to break into your notes for the gossip.”_

John sighs again, because his kid. “You need to stop cracking my passwords, Stiles, you know the IT guys are threatening to not give us support anymore.”

 _“Then pick ones where I can just guess them, and I don’t have to resort to dodgy decrypting software from the Darknet,”_ Stiles says. His voice drifts off and then he’s yelling at Derek not to put water on a grease fire, and then he gets back on the phone. _“Hey, um, Dad, listen, everything is okay, it’s okay, really, it’s just I kind of need to go and—”_

“Good night, Stiles,” John says.

Stiles pauses. _“’night, Dad. And hey, I’ll see you Friday.”_

He hangs up on Derek complaining about the smell and Peter drawling that that’s how they know the garlic’s inedible now, and John supposes that’s as good a sign as any that he doesn’t need to call the fire department. Not that he doesn’t still consider it anyway.

Eventually John pulls his finger away from the dialer, and swipes over to his contacts list. He almost calls Melissa before remembering she’ll have just gotten off shift, and she and Scott are probably cooking dinner. It’s still early out on the West Coast.

Still pretty early on the East Coast, for that matter, seeing as he’d ended up opting to skip dessert with Deaton and just picked up some cookies from a shop near the hotel. John could head out again, see if he still remembers the favorite Service watering holes in D.C., but…he’s tired, he thinks. Jet-lagged and his back’s kind of stiff from the flight, and he’s in that weird place where he just wants to lie down but he’ll just end up staring at the ceiling if he tries to go to sleep.

And he’s calling Stiles his first night away, like he’s the kid and Stiles is the parent, he thinks. It’s not like he hasn’t had to be away from Stiles before, and back then he’d had to get other agents to watch his kid, since it’s not like he could just fly in Melissa every time. And Stiles had been a lot younger, and he’d been a lot more worried about his son, what with all the uncertainty coming with not having a Nemeton bond, and he doesn’t ever remember feeling this off-kilter.

John thinks about doing some work, but he finds himself making a face just looking at his laptop, so that idea’s out. He flops onto the bed and channel-surfs for a few minutes, then turns the TV off. Thinks about getting his laptop over, not for work but for pleasure reading or watching something on that instead, but he can’t really think of anything he’d be interested in looking up, and so he ends up looking at his phone again. He scrolls through his contacts list a few times, then sighs and just goes with the obvious.

 _Nothing much, just doing a little shooting at the range,_ Chris texts back. _Why?_

 _I’m bored,_ John types.

He’s still wondering what kind of idiot he is when his phone rings. _“You’re bored,”_ Chris says.

“Yeah,” John says.

Chris must still be at the range, because John can hear muffled gunfire, but wherever he is, it’s far enough from the shooting that John can also hear the man’s incredulous snort. _“Well, I’d offer to swing by, but I don’t think that that would work.”_

“Yeah, too bad. They upgraded me to a king,” John says.

 _“Please don’t tell me you’re calling for phone sex,”_ Chris says after a second. _“I know you two talk me into a lot, but I have to draw a line somewhere.”_

John’s laughing under his breath when he realizes he’s relaxed so much he’s slid down the headboard, and is just about lying on his back. “You called me, Argent.”

 _“Because you sounded like one of the kids and I wanted to check that your phone didn’t get stolen, and I wasn’t getting pranked by some teenager,”_ Chris says. 

“No, it’s me, and…” John can’t help a sigh, even though he knows Chris is going to pounce right on that “…I finished up early and I think the time difference is getting at me, and I don’t think just drinking beer alone in my hotel room’s a healthy way to deal with that.”

 _“I guess I am better for you than that,”_ Chris says slowly. He sounds like he’s getting himself a seat somewhere. _“Are you drinking beer?”_

“What? No. I don’t even have any—do I sound drunk?” John says.

Chris pauses for a few seconds. _“No, but you sound kind of…you sound kind of off. Are you—are things all right?”_

“They’re fine. No big disasters yet, though I’m knocking on wood.” And John does reach out and tap the bedside table. Smiles when he hears Chris’ soft laugh. “Yeah, I don’t know, maybe that’s why. Usually when I’m up here, I’m pissed off at somebody or scared to death. I don’t know how to do D.C. when I’m not jumped up on adrenaline.”

 _“Well, you could go and try and find somebody to save, but I think Melissa might get mad at you,”_ Chris says. _“She was saying something about you needing to chill out.”_

John makes a face. “I was kind of annoying her earlier. I’m gonna have to find her a really nice cactus for Valentine’s Day.”

 _“I should give up on understanding you two, shouldn’t I,”_ Chris mutters after a second. And then he goes and takes a deep breath, and when he’s done with that, he sounds hesitant. _“Are those what she likes? Because I thought she liked violets, so I was getting her a pot. And I was going to make her my grandmother’s apple tart, but just food didn’t seem right, so…”_

“I thought you weren’t big on the holiday,” John says, blinking. “Shit, I mean—okay, well, Mel said you didn’t want anything big.”

Chris goes dryly amused again. _“Well, yeah, I don’t, but I was married, John. I don’t think any of us are the red and pink hearts all over type, but Melissa likes gifts, and I’m not going to be so stupid as to just take her letting me off the hook as a reason to take her for granted.”_

“Yeah.” John pushes his fingers at his temple. “Yeah, no, that’s…yeah, that sounds about right.”

 _“For the record, I wasn’t expecting a cactus from you,”_ Chris says, still dry. _“And…and I know you had the trip on your mind.”_

“Yeah, yeah, but I was married too and I usually managed to remember a damn holiday,” John mutters. “And that was before we all had smartphones and automatic reminders, and just—just, it’s not like I’m _always_ putting work first, all right? I don’t want to be, anyway. I want to do this right.”

 _“I know,”_ Chris says, very quietly. _“And you already do, you know. I don’t need a made-up holiday to get my proof of that, John.”_

John just stops himself before he comments about Chris’ low standards for that kind of proof, because that’s just shitty and ungrateful and patronizing. And he really should learn to take a compliment before he goes off and judges other people, and…and hell, he’s off.

 _“Hey,”_ Chris says. _“John? John, are you—”_

“I’m still here, I’m just…I’m having a weird time,” John says. “You know, I’m not an adrenaline junkie. I get a break like this, I’m usually thrilled. Honestly, if the worst thing is…oh. Yeah. So…I should mention, I did end up having dinner with Alan Deaton.”

Chris is quiet for a long moment, and when he finally speaks, he’s very carefully bland about it. _“Okay, you mentioned he’d reached out.”_

“Yeah, and when I first took over, he offered to buy me a meal the next time I made it to D.C. It…it wasn’t bad, but I don’t know that we’re going to be best friends any time soon,” John says. He listens very closely, and just hears a low exhale. “You did come up, but it was just—he was explaining why the hell he didn’t designate a hunter after you resigned. And I don’t know, it’s not like he said anything that I could really fault him on, but he just…I can’t get a handle on him.”

When Chris snorts, John lets out his own sigh of relief, tilting the phone up so Chris can’t hear it. John can’t avoid people just because Chris’ feelings might get hurt, and what happened before is as much Service business as it is Chris’ personal family dispute, but he hates reminding the man of that. Chris just starts feeling guiltier about not measuring up. At the same time, John doesn’t really think that lying to the guy and talking about him behind his back’s a healthy way to deal with it either. 

_“He’s always been like that. Like you don’t know whether he’s coming at it as some theory he’s testing out, or like he really cares about it? Yeah, that always irritated me about him,”_ Chris says, and thankfully, he just sounds sympathetic. _“Honestly, sometimes I thought he and Talia got along so well because they were seeing which of them could keep up the breezy act for the longest.”_

“I’d believe that,” John says. He shifts on the bed as his back twinges, then moves the pillow so it’s more under his head than under his shoulders. “Anyway, I got my free dinner out of him. Not sure I’m going to be looking for another one, but…if that’s as bad as it gets on this trip, I really should be happy about it.”

Chris makes a noncommittal noise. It’s not dismissive or anything, it’s just neutral, signaling he’s still listening but not much else. Not that John can blame him, when John doesn’t really have any idea where this is going either.

“Am I keeping you from dinner?” he says, glancing over at the clock.

 _“Not really. Allison’s staying at Lydia’s tonight, so I don’t really have to worry about that,”_ Chris says.

John winces. “Oh, yeah, right. Sorry.”

 _“You’re just keeping me from a sandwich and starting on my taxes, John, I don’t think either of them are going to be offended,”_ Chris says. There are voices in the background and Chris moves around, and then John hears a door closing. _“You really all right?”_

“I think I’m just not used to feeling like things are going fine,” John says after a second. “Sorry. Damn, Mel’s right, now I’m just making trouble for myself…”

Chris laughs. _“Just watch a movie, John. Trust me, this kind of time never lasts.”_

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, I’ll get off and leave you alone,” John says. He sits up, running his hand through his hair, and then doesn’t get off the bed. “And hey, for the record, I’m pretty sure Mel wouldn’t mind just the tart, but violets are her favorite.”

 _“Oh. Oh, all right,”_ Chris says.

He sounds a little thrown and John almost apologizes for just coming off like a disjointed lunatic, but if he starts on that, Chris is going to start on trying to figure out how to fix this for him. And the last thing he wants is Chris fretting from across the country about how to deal with his lousy state of mind.

They chat a little longer about nothing in particular, then say their farewells. John puts his phone aside and gets his laptop. He still doesn’t really want to watch a movie, but he figures he can get that cactus ordered. And maybe think of better gifts, since a joke plant and bankrolling an extra bottle of wine for Chris and Melissa’s night out seems a little absentminded, at best. It should get his brain back on track, anyway.

* * *

John does place the cactus order, but instead of checking out hunting gear or cooking equipment, he logs into his work email and finds out that a couple idiot hikers ignored the closed signs on some damaged trails and ended up falling into a ravine. No major injuries, pretty par for the course at this time of year, but John gets detoured into a couple hours of reading up on hiker injury stats for the preserve, and Service protocol for dealing with liability claims, and sometimes John does see where Stiles is coming from. He finally just has to close his laptop on all the open windows and just make himself lie down on the bed.

The next day’s booked solid with meetings, so that at least keeps him hopping from breakfast all the way up to dinner, which is doubling as a meet and greet with trainees and interns. Halfway through that, John gets an email from Deaton with three attachments, but he’s in the middle of answering a question about alpha dispute mediation and so he shoves that to the back of his mind.

Dinner’s actually pretty fun. He’s still annoyed as hell that the Service couldn’t dig up one ranger for the office that had some prior experience with Nemetons, but that’s because he’s depending on his staff to support his son. Without Stiles on the line, he likes hearing from the up and comers, and telling them a little bit about what they can expect and then seeing their reactions. They’re a reasonably sharp group, too, and he’s got some hope that one or two might eventually get posted in his region.

After that John has some cocktail thing with a couple politicians—no fundraisers, but the Service can’t resist tossing him a few lobbying events, with Wanda Brzezicki as his mother-in-law—but he ducks into an empty office and catches up on his messages.

Stiles informs him that the third batch of chicken paprikash was actually tasty, and also, he thinks starting a compost heap would be a great way to model home recycling for the community on top of satisfying his semester science project need. John snorts, shoots a warning off to his most competent junior ranger, and then texts Stiles that if it’s a personal compost heap, then Stiles is responsible for all maintenance and upkeep. Recycling’s great and all, but John spends enough time shoveling around dirt at work.

Melissa’s sent John a long string of texts, the general gist of which is that she wants to set him up with some friends of hers in D.C. to get him out of his ‘sad cubicle hotel’ and keep him too busy to annoy Chris. She clarifies that Chris isn’t panicking or anything, but that she is trying very hard to keep him from thinking about John being out of town and John is not helping. Also, bored? What, is John twelve now?

John thinks for a second, then switches over to his email and pulls up the confirmation email for that cactus. He screenshots it and then texts it to Melissa, who promptly sends him a photo of an empty tart pan, with just a couple smears of filling and crust crumbs left in it.

 _Shared with the other nurses and it was delicious,_ she says, and he can just about hear her smug tone. _They voted Chris the better boyfriend four to two._

 _Remind me to send those two roses,_ John texts back.

 _Jerk._ Then there’s a lag and John almost leaves the thread before another message pops up. _So we’re set for Garden of Eden for Thursday night. We were thinking we could call you after, but you have that early flight._

 _I get a car to take me to the airport, I can just sleep till they roll me onto the plane,_ John texts back. _Don’t rush your meal for me. Just have fun and text me and see if I’m up._

 _Fine but get out of the damn hotel,_ is Melissa’s last word on the subject.

Just then his minder calls through the door that their car’s almost here, so John swallows a curse and does a quick flick through the rest of his piled-up messages. He gets a little side-tracked in one about Derek scaring some campers trying to start an illegal fire, and almost misses the one text Chris has sent.

_If you’re really bored, you could make me flashcards for these licensing classes. I don’t remember half of these regulations._

John ends up grinning at his phone, because he doesn’t doubt that Chris already has a neat binder of notes and his own flashcards. And while the man’s studious about anything he does, it’s more than a little reassuring to see Chris complaining about it. Means that he really does want to do it, and isn’t just getting his license back out of some twisted combination of pride and guilt.

Then John’s got to go, but once he’s done a circuit of the cocktail hour, and his minder’s carelessly let him get trapped by an overeager senator’s aide who sounds like he hasn’t seen a tree that wasn’t surrounded in concrete his whole life, John sneaks off a text to one of those trainees from earlier, asking whether they’ve still got those study groups he remembers from his training days. The trainee tells him, as he was hoping, that that’s all online now and sends him a couple links he can pass on to Chris, and that almost makes the networking bearable.

Wednesday morning John wakes up with a little bit of a hangover, thanks to the number of drinks it takes for him to stand politicians for two hours. Luckily, his first meeting isn’t till mid-morning, so he downs a glass of water and some aspirin, and then hits up the nearest hotel staff person he sees for a recommendation on a good greasy spoon breakfast.

He reads through the resumes Deaton forwarded over his food, and then checks out a couple others that had shown up after his Q&A dinner. The trainees are mostly reccing friends of theirs, who are all too young, although _one_ of them is a Calavera, which is interesting. John forwards that one to Stiles, with the warning that he’s just wondering about networking, and not to break any privacy laws before they talk.

Deaton’s candidates have the experience, but two out of the three are from hunter families old enough that they’ll have extra vetting steps just to make sure that there isn’t some kind of inter-family issue between them and the Argents. Hunter politics can get just as bad as werewolf, and that’s before John checks that there’s no issue with Claudia’s family either. Wanda generally _does_ respect U.S. sovereignty, but that doesn’t always mean that the other families will, once they find out who Stiles’ grandmother is.

“Swear to God, some days I feel like I should’ve been a lawyer,” John says, slouching back in his chair. “I spend so much time trying to figure out whose toes we’re stepping on.”

“Well, that’s not a legal problem, most of the time, and for what it’s worth, you’ve done an excellent job in my book,” says his supervisor. “Look, let’s focus on the real issue here: do you need a designated hunter?”

John takes in a breath to answer, and then hesitates. Marcella’s been a great boss—a stickler for the rules, enough so that John always feels a little apologetic when he shows up, what with all the variances he asks for—but sometimes she can be hard to predict. She got recruited from the private sector and in his opinion, it shows some when it comes to _which_ rules she chooses to be a stickler about.

“Oh, it’s not a trick question, John,” Marcella says, tsking at him. “It’s a knotty one, I agree, and there’s no point in rushing to judgment on it. Too many moving parts, too many fingers in the pie, we should exercise a little patience. And you’re usually quite good at that.”

“Thanks,” John says, meeting her wry smile with one of his own. “Well, my honest opinion, I got enough, uh, informal support in the area to deal with pretty much anything. But I do think we’re setting ourselves up for issues down the line if we just keep leaving the post unfilled, just in terms of setting bad precedents. We’re already out of line with the rest of the Service in a lot of areas, and I know how much paperwork that generates.”

“True. Although your incident reports are very popular reading among the analysts,” Marcella says. Her smile gets a little wider, to the point that John starts feeling like he should be apologizing for something. She’s a nonwere, but John thinks any werewolf would envy her set of teeth. “All right, then, but my question was whether you needed a designated hunter.”

John blinks. “Ma’am?”

“There’s more than one way to set up an operation, John,” Marcella says, prim but clearly amused. “Just because the office has a designated hunter opening doesn’t mean we have to keep it for a designated hunter. And I’m sure you’ve heard about some of the experimental liaisons the urban offices have been trying out—I saw that you were meeting with Agent Dodson, she must have told you about John Constantine—”

“Yeah, that was interesting,” John mutters. “Kind of puts me off Los Angeles for a while.”

Marcella snorts. “Well, you’re firmly NorCal now, aren’t you? Anyway, as I was saying…I’m willing to look at re-categorizing the position, if that would suit your office’s needs better than a traditional hunter assignment. Think on it and let me know with your next quarterly report, how about that?”

“I…yeah, that sounds—that’s good. That should be fine,” John says, blinking again. “Thanks. And thank you for being so flexible. I’m sorry to be bringing another—”

“Oh, stop, John. Relax,” Marcella says. “Get to know your new permanent post. I know you two were getting a little tired of having to move so often.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I mean, we were going to do whatever we needed to, but…it’s nice,” John finally says. “It’s a good post.”

“And it is far, far away from the Upper Midwest, thank the Lord,” Marcella mutters. “I can finally get a little sleep at night since you’re not likely to ever run into…well, anyway. Take a look around, see what you need and get back to me. Oh, and John? Say hi to Stiles and the McCalls for me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” John says, grinning.

Marcella rolls her eyes. “All right, now get out and have a little fun in the city. It’s not that often that you get to come here without a disaster at your back, John. You should enjoy it.”

* * *

Given all the people who’ve been telling John to just stop inventing worries, he really should listen. But he doesn’t think it surprises anybody when he doesn’t.

 _“So, Dad, first of all, nothing is wrong. Nothing. I successfully visited a museum without causing any damage to priceless works of art, or property that isn’t mine, and I didn’t have to hide any bodies either,”_ Stiles says. He’s outside and John can hear leaves rustling and Derek snarling at somebody. _“Okay, so maybe post-modern art doesn’t agree with certain people, but I think that’s a pretty minor quibble, don’t you?”_

“I guess if ‘agree’ doesn’t mean ‘terrorize the docents’ here,” John says. He checks the time, and then his schedule, and then decides that he can afford to be late to the next meeting. It’s more of a networking thing anyway and since it’s the last of the day, they can just run over time to make up for it. “But then why are you calling? Aren’t you supposed to be picnicking?”

 _“Yep, I am, and we even have the checkered blanket and the cute little wicker basket to prove it. And—”_ Stiles pauses to yell at Derek to just let the squirrel go, they’ve got three more cupcakes and the tree is getting pissed at all the twigs he’s snapping _“—and me and Derek and Peter are all set for a super-awesome night of Hale cooking and gushy relationship stuff and a total lack of violence or distractions, but instead I am calling you, Dad, because the baby rangers are blowing up my phone. Dad. Seriously. You’re home tomorrow. You gotta stop micro-managing.”_

John winces, then catches his minder heading back his way and quickly ducks into a nearby men’s room. Which is thankfully empty. “Says the kid who writes up annotated memos and calls them shopping lists.”

 _“I totally see what you’re doing, Dad, and it’s not working. Don’t change the subject away from your inability to let go,”_ Stiles says. _“I mean, come on, I get a little nitpicky sometimes—”_

 _“I still don’t see what the difference is between organic peanut butter and plain, and I’m the one with the super senses,”_ Derek says, amid a bunch of snapping branches.

 _“Of which determining texture clearly isn’t one,”_ Peter says.

Stiles makes a sound that’s a cross between a yelp and a slap with something wooden, say, a wicker basket. _“I am trying to chew out my dad so you two can make with the sexing, God, a little appreciation he—oh, sorry, Dad, did you hear that?”_

“Kind of,” John says dryly.

 _“Crap. Well, whatever, look, the thing is, the baby rangers aren’t perfect but I’m pretty sure they know how to truck mud around and how to chew out idiot hikers,”_ Stiles says. _“Just, what’s the problem, Dad? You’re usually not this bad. Is D.C. really annoying this time or something? Are you possessed?”_

“Just because I’m having a—” And then John stops himself. Takes a deep breath, rubs at the side of his face, and reminds himself to not yell at his kid for being more sensible than he’s being right now. “No. I’m not possessed, and D.C.’s not bad, and I’ll stop nagging the rangers. I—so I was being pretty bad, huh.”

Stiles sighs. _“Dad, you’re my, well, my dad, and I’m always gonna be in your corner, but…if I get a bunch of rangers begging me and not Melissa to talk to you…yeah. I think you kind of were.”_

John presses his hand over his eyes. “Well, shit. Sorry, son.”

 _“It’s okay,”_ Stiles immediately says. He pauses, and John can practically hear the wheels turning in his head. _“I mean, it is, right? Because it’s not like you haven’t gone out on business before without me. And I really truly am not lying, lying by omission, playing down or otherwise deceptively mischaracterizing when I say I’m fine.”_

“Yeah, no, I mean, I know you’re fine. I’m not…that’s not it,” John mutters.

 _“And if it’s, um, Chris or Melissa, they both were fine too, last I checked,”_ Stiles adds a little more tentatively. _“Not that I’m spying or anything. Just Scott mentioned they kind of coordinated dates tonight so nobody would be walking into the wrong house, and…it’s not that you’re missing Valentine’s Day, is it?”_

John stares. Even though his son’s across the country.

Stiles snickers. _“Oh, good, definitely not possessed. Because you had me wondering a little, with prying into Peter and Derek’s plans—I totally caught that, I hope you know, I just didn’t want to make you miss your plane—and hey, if you need last-minute presents or something—”_

“No, Stiles, do not help,” John says. “It’s nice of you to offer, but…no.”

 _“You say that like I’m bad at gifts. I’m great at gifts,”_ Stiles says, playing wounded. _“But okay, you’re…you’re good.”_

He’s asking a little bit of a question at the end there. John presses his lips together, then sighs. “No, I am. I really am. I think I’m just…it’s just a little weird. You know we’re usually about to move when I come to D.C. I think this is the first time I won’t be coming back to a bunch of boxes and a moving van.”

 _“Yeah, I actually thought about that too,”_ Stiles says, sounding unexpectedly somber. _“Hey, are you guys doing anything when you are back? Should I get out of the house this weekend? I could crash with Scott, or actually, the Hales are running one of their open hunts, remember, and I could just stay over with them. Or—”_

“We weren’t planning anything, but that was…okay, I kind of forgot it was Valentine’s,” John says. “I think we were going to talk about it when I get back, so I don’t know yet. If we do, I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

 _“Well, sure,”_ Stiles says. _“We actually got something good to come back to, Dad. You should do something. You deserve it.”_

And that’s what people have been telling John the whole time, but maybe it’s just the timing, or the way Stiles puts it. Or maybe it’s just the fact that it’s his son, who’s the only one who’s lived through every move right alongside John. Melissa knows John better than he knows himself a lot of the time, but when she went home to Scott, she never had a problem knowing where that was, for the past few years. John can’t even remember what it feels like to go _home_ , to be honest; since Claudia died, he’s just been going back to Stiles, and to Stiles’ search for a tree.

“Yeah,” John says. “Yeah, you’re right.”

* * *

After that, John goes to his last meeting, and he really does make an effort to just…let Beacon Hills be for a while. He talks to people, swaps tips and contact information. Takes that nod from Marcella and goes out to a nearby bar with some colleagues afterward, and picks his fellow agents’ brains about alternatives to designated hunters. Whatever he’s going to do with that, he will need a non-were for the position; the Hales are such a strong, well-known pack that he doubts he can find an omega who could remain free of their influence. 

Well, short of trying to pry a career omega out of one of the military’s covert units, but John knows he’d have better luck waiting for Chris to rethink his decision. But that’s just as well, anyway. With all the personal connections floating around, John also thinks it’d be helpful to just get a different perspective into the office, somebody who’s not automatically going to see things from hunter or werewolf points of view.

He’s just gotten back to his hotel room, debating whether it’s worth running a database search now—he can’t stay out drinking any longer if he wants to be in any shape for his morning flight, but he’s nowhere near ready for bed—when his phone goes off. John accepts the call without checking who it is, busy with taking his shoes off without tipping himself into the wall, and then rams his shoulder into that anyway when the first thing he hears is a long, low moan in a voice he damn well recognizes.

“The hell,” John says, straightening up against the wall. “Chris? Chris, are—”

 _“John,”_ Melissa says, sounding cheerful enough that he knows they’re all right. _“Oh, so you are still up.”_

John starts to tell her yeah, and thanks for the near heart-attack, when Chris moans again. And there’s the sound of moving clothing, and wet, soft noises, and John decides he probably should sit down before he says something. He’s not…he’s not drunk, exactly, but he’s had a few.

 _“So, we had a really, really nice bottle of wine, compliments of you,”_ Melissa goes on. Halfway through her voice gets muffled, and the soft wet noises get louder, and then she laughs breathlessly and her voice gets very loud, like she’s got her mouth right to the end of her phone. _“Finished the whole thing.”_

“Please tell me you didn’t drive like that,” John says.

 _“What, no, we didn’t drink it all there,”_ Chris breaks in. He’s definitely slurring, though he’s making a strong attempt to sound reassuring and sensible. Kind of ruins it when Melissa mutters at him to move his leg so she can get her dress up. _“They let us take what was left home, and, Jesus, Mel, wait, wait, I can’t—”_

He trails off into another moan, while Melissa laughs over him. _“Hold still, hold still, I can’t push if you keep moving,”_ she says. _“Anyway, John, no, we were good to drive, like good kids, and then we got home and it just seemed like a really bad idea to leave the bottle, it’s going to—to—what do you call it, when it goes bad—”_

“Oxidize,” John says. He shifts some, listening to Chris panting and cursing, to Melissa humming low in her throat, like she does whenever she’s doing something really terrible to the poor man. Then he figures he’s alone in his room, what the hell, and undoes his belt and fly. “So you two are drunk? Are you playing with something?”

 _“Well, Chris, I guess,”_ Melissa says, just a shade too confused to be sincere. _“Him and my favorite vibrator. It’s the one on the cord, don’t worry, I can get it back out if my fingers slip.”_

John bites down on the noise coming out of him. “That’s—I don’t know if that’s comforting or scary or—or Jesus Christ, Mel, what are you doing to him?”

Chris is whimpering over the phone, little ragged noises like he’s trying to catch his breath. He’s mostly failing, but when he does have the air for it, he’s also begging. Telling Melissa he can’t hold on, and then making this damn hiccupping noise, all hurt and relieved, and _then_ he starts telling her he needs to come.

 _“And we’re not really drunk. We’re just…we’re just pretty good, I’d say,”_ Melissa says, ignoring John’s question. Maybe. She and Chris are making out now, and he’s doing something to her to make her gasp every so often. _“Just, God, John, you keep being such a worrier, and we were talking about it, and you need to calm down, just calm down, relax, remember we’re all here for you and—”_

 _“Please,”_ Chris groans. _“Jesus, John, please—when you do, she said when you do—”_

 _“—and Chris was saying he’d kind of lied about the whole no phone sex thing, he was kind of wishing you’d just talked him into it, and maybe that’d just take the edge off whatever was bugging you, and John, John, seriously, you missed that, I can’t believe you missed that,”_ Melissa is saying, half-laughing, half-scolding. She and Chris knock into something and Chris curses, and then Melissa must take off something because Chris stops cursing and lets out a low, rough noise, before muttering about how beautiful she is. _“No, wait, you’re going to knock it out of you—”_

John is so damn glad he carries around a tube of lubricant with him. And he’s been relieved about that before, but he’s pretty sure this is the first time he’s glad he’s got it for saving himself from just chafing the hell out of his cock. Because he was pulling that out of his pants and getting his hand around it one way or the other, and he’ll just limp his way to the airport in the morning if he has to.

 _“Oh, fuck,”_ Chris grunts. Then he pants a little. _“Fuck, okay, can I—fuck, fuck, you’re so warm—”_

 _“That tickles,”_ Melissa yelps, and then she groans. _“Oh, oh, no, lower, oh, there, right there, oh, God, that’s so good, so good, Chris—”_

 _“Please, please, just—”_ Chris says, voice getting lower and lower. _“Fuck, fuck, I’m—I’m trying but I can’t—John, I can’t—”_

John swears and bangs his head against the wall, jerking himself off. He’s sitting on his goddamn hotel floor and pulling his cock like a horny teenager, and he’d be embarrassed as hell if he didn’t feel like he and Chris were both going to explode if he doesn’t just get. Oh, fuck.

“Oh, fuck, that was good,” he mutters, and for a second he doesn’t even remember why he’s got his cock out.

Chris fixes that by whimpering again. John starts, nearly drops the phone, and then grabs it and holds it to his mouth like a mike.

“Okay. Chris, it’s okay, you can—” he starts.

The other end of the line suddenly bursts into a bunch of different noises, all of them loud: rattling, slapping, swearing and hoarse cries. And then it goes quiet, just as suddenly—John thinks he can still hear them breathing, but they sound kind of far off. He’s asking if they’re all right when he hears a series of grunts and thumps, and then Melissa comes back on.

 _“Sorry,”_ she says. _“We smacked the phone over into the wall.”_

“Oh,” John says. He shakes his head, blinking, and then starts to wipe his hand off on his pants before catching himself. Then he sags against the wall, laughing incredulously under his breath. “Jesus, did we actually just…”

 _“Well, you two did,”_ Melissa says. _“I didn’t—”_

 _“Shit, sorry,”_ Chris says. _“Let me just…”_

“Are you fucking her?” John says, just as Melissa tells Chris to wait.

They’re quiet for a second, and then Chris coughs a little. _“Yeah. I’m—I’m still in her.”_

On the floor of his hotel room, John thinks, and then decides to hell with it. He’s already done it, not like he can take it back. “You on her or under her?”

Melissa sucks in her breath, and then starts giggling again, while Chris makes a stifled, kind of reluctant, kind of interested noise. _“On,”_ he finally says.

“And is that vibrator still in you?” John asks.

Chris hisses, and then he must put his head down because his voice is suddenly a lot clearer. It’s thick and hot and the reluctance is all but gone. _“Shit, I knew this was such a bad idea.”_

 _“It’s still in him, do you want me to turn it back on?”_ Melissa says. Then she’s kissing Chris or something, telling him it’s all right in between wet mouth noises, it’s all right and she’ll drive him back to his house in the morning.

John tries not to chuckle. “Jesus, Mel, how long were you two going at it before you called me? Is he going to be all right when I get back? Am I going to need to get you two from the ER?”

 _“’m fine, I’m fine,”_ Chris mutters. _“Not gonna die or anything.”_

 _“Yeah, I think he’s okay,”_ Melissa says. _“Just worried about you. And me too, you asshole, Stilinski, do you have to make me worry when nobody’s even trying to kill us? It’s bad enough you’re out of town again, and you were always out of town before, and you’re finally not, and…and wow, okay, I am drunk.”_

“Yeah, just a little, sounds like,” John says. He does let himself chuckle this time, because she might be annoyed at him but honestly, he can’t wait to get back to that. And all the rest, and…and it’s just a short trip but John misses them. He has to admit that now. He misses them, and he hasn’t really missed anybody like this in years, and…it sucks, missing people. But then…he likes having people to miss again. “Okay, well, no, leave it off. But Chris, you keep leaving Mel hanging like that, and I’m gonna do something about it when I get back. On top of whatever she does.”

Melissa laughs. _“You giant asshole, John, I should—oh, oh, God, yes, just—yes, like that, that, Chris, keep—”_

 _“Okay, okay, just, I—like that, right, like that,”_ Chris is mumbling. His voice is fading some, and so are Melissa’s gasps, and then the phone clatters as one of them drops it. _“Okay, yeah, hey, you’re not bored now, right?”_

John pauses, then snorts. “Nope, I’m good,” he says, just before ending the call.

He’s tempted. He’s really, really damn tempted, and he’s not halfway to his feet before he thinks about calling them back. But…no, he got what he needed, and now he really needs to get into a shower and into bed before he fucks up his morning any more than he already has. And anyway, the state those two sound like they’re in, they’d better just concentrate on each other, and not have to remember him, too. He can catch up later, when he’s back.

* * *

John doesn’t have any new texts from Chris or Melissa when he gets on the plane, but when he lands he’s got a couple.

Melissa: _Oh, my God, did we actually do that. John! You’re not supposed to let me do that when I’m drunk!_

Chris: _You were okay about that, right?_

 _I wasn’t really sober either,_ John texts both of them. _But now that I am, I really wish I’d remembered to tell you to just put it on speaker._

“Dad?” Stiles says, frowning at him. “Why are you grinning like that?”

John shrugs and puts his phone away. “Like what? Like I’m glad to be back?”

“Haha,” Stiles says, merging onto the highway. He glances at John’s madly buzzing pocket, then looks back at the road. “Good trip?”

“It was okay,” John says. He shifts as his phone starts jiggling his keys, then pulls the phone out and tucks it into his briefcase. “I got things done, picked up a couple contacts. How were things here?”

“You mean in the less than twenty-four hours since we talked?” Stiles says. “Come on, Dad, what was gonna happen in that short a time?”

John looks at him. Stiles flushes, then jerks his head around and stares at the road as he very carefully signals a lane change.

“Well, I don’t see a fireball on the horizon, so I’m guessing that it was okay,” John says after a second. His back twinges and he puts his hand behind it, pressing in as he twists in place, and then he slumps down as his spine pops a few times. “Good. You know, it _is_ nice to come back for once, and just be able to go home, put my feet up, and catch up on my sleep. I could get used to this.”

“Yep. Yeah, that would totally be awesome. Um, I mean it is awesome.” Stiles fidgets with the wheel, then curses and jerks them back straight. “Anyway, nope, nothing happened. Nothing you need to worry about. We’re just gonna go home, and chill out, and—”

“Stiles,” John sighs.

“Okay, seriously, I think it can wait till Monday,” Stiles says without missing a beat. “Nobody died, there’s no structural damage and it’s not like we really use the oven now anyway. And we already ordered a new one, and I redid the wards and Peter brought over enough food from their house that we don’t need to do any cooking. It’s good, really.”

John rubs at the side of his face. “Stiles.”

“Also, just in case it comes up, like, I don’t know, you’re hanging out and you get munchies, but you’re busy so you see Derek and you’re like, hey, Derek, want to fire up the broiler and make garlic toast? Yeah, maybe not do that,” Stiles goes on. He’s starting to bounce in his seat now, and when John shifts, he throws over a slightly panicky look and then laughs very loudly and fakely as he hastily works the clutch and gas pedals to keep the jeep’s gears from grinding.

“ _Stiles_ ,” John says, rubbing his temple. “Look, is it anything I have to file something about?”

“Um, no.” A little vengeful look flits over Stiles’ face. “Nope, believe me, I made Derek do all the ordering. I even made him look up where to dump the old one.”

“Well, okay, then. Guess it can wait till Monday.” John rolls his shoulders and stretches out his back again, then pushes his legs out. He can’t quite get the cramp shaken out of his knee, so he grabs the seat and lifts himself off it and then tries again, and then sighs as that joint pops.

It’s nice and quiet in the car for a few minutes. “Wow,” Stiles says. “Must have been a really good trip.”

“Yeah, wasn’t bad,” John says, closing his eyes.

* * *

John looks at it. “So, was this before or after that bottle of wine?”

“Oh, shut up, you’re lucky we got you anything after that,” Melissa says, pushing the pot into his hands. She adds a bat at his shoulder as she squeezes past him, then makes a beeline for the casserole he’s just uncovered. “Are you…you’re eating it cold? John, honestly, I know your microwave isn’t broken.”

“I was on a plane less than three hours ago, Mel, I’m not really that picky right now,” John says. He looks over the plant, then belatedly swings it out of Chris’ face. “Sorry. So what is this? A maple?”

“It’s a dwarf fig,” Chris says. He steps in and shuts the door behind him. He is watching John closely, but he and Melissa both look all right, not squinting or too tense. If a little mussed: Melissa hasn’t even bothered to put on chapstick and Chris has a ruffled ridge running through his hair, like he showered in a hurry and didn’t really comb through it after. “Her idea.”

“Which tree, yeah, I’ll admit to that. But Chris was the one who thought of it in the first place,” Melissa calls over her shoulder. She’s gotten out a stack of plates and is lifting out pieces of casserole onto them.

John snorts at her, and then leans over and kisses Chris as he sets the pot on the counter. He slings his arm over Chris’ shoulders too, feeling them slacken a little, and uses that to pull the other man over as he stops Melissa from cutting out a fourth portion. “They’re dropping the old stove at a scrap metal place, and then Derek’s buying them dinner, so we’ve got the house to ourselves for a couple hours,” he says. He pecks Melissa on the cheek and then grabs the fork he’d gotten out, and eats a bite of cold casserole while she looks disbelievingly at him. “And yeah, Derek asked whether I wanted some too, but I’ve had enough traveling today.”

“So you were just going to eat this by yourself in the living room?” Chris says, also a little skeptical.

“Well, texted you, didn’t I?” John says. He kisses Chris again, while the man’s preoccupied with being miffed at him, and then laughs and has another bite. “Okay, yeah, honestly, I kind of thought I’d just sack out. I wasn’t sure you’d get over, but seems like you got over that bottle pretty fast.”

Melissa smirks at him, and then pointedly picks up her and Chris’ servings and turns to put them in the microwave. “Benefits of being a nurse, John,” she says, punching in the time. “You learn all the hangover tricks.”

“You’re lucky,” John says to Chris. “Known her for years and she doesn’t give me any tips.”

Chris grins, but he ducks his head and he’s got a little pink over his cheekbones. His hair brushes over John’s cheek, and then he dips lower, sliding his cheek against the side of John’s neck a couple times. 

“Still, if you were planning to crack open another bottle, I think I’d better pass,” he says, voice low, a little rough with affection. When John slides his hand along Chris’ shoulder and onto Chris’ nape, Chris starts stretching his vowels and rolling his Rs, borderline purring. “I mean it, both of you. Don’t even know why I went along with it in the first place, and I still—I don’t want to be limping when Allison and I drive up for the campus tour next week.”

“Oh, come on, I wasn’t working you nearly as hard as John does,” Melissa says, and then smiles wickedly as Chris all but buries his face in John’s neck out of embarrassment. “You and your meetings in the preserve, really.”

“Nah, no wine tonight. I only just got in, I haven’t even unpacked all the way,” John says. He rubs his thumb across the back of Chris’ neck, till Chris feels like straightening up and meeting Melissa’s eyes again, and then gives Chris a light squeeze before pulling his arm down and stepping away. “Though before I forget, I did get something for you. Besides the cactus.”

Melissa cocks her head, then frowns a little. He’s surprised her, and she doesn’t look too comfortable about it. “John, I said—you didn’t have to, I told you, and—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but I thought you’d like it,” he says, walking around the island. He grabs his briefcase and flips it up onto the counter, then pops the locks. “Got something for you, too, Chris.”

Of course Chris looks uncomfortable. He starts to say something, then shoots Melissa a quick glance, and by then John has the briefcase open. Chris presses his lips together, watching John, and when John pulls his hands out of the case, Chris tenses up.

“Don’t look like that, it’s not like it was any trouble. I was talking to some of the guys in R&D, and they were showing off their equipment, and I just asked them if they could do it and they said sure. And I just…I thought it was a nice idea,” John says. He tries to sound light but he’s afraid he goes a little heavy at the end.

He _had_ thought it was a good idea at the time, and he’d even been sober. But he hasn’t done this for a long time, hasn’t had a relationship to work at, and…yeah, he feels a little nervous, watching them pick up the phone cases.

Both of them recognize the wood right away, but it’s Chris who looks up first. “Isn’t this from the Nemeton?”

“I took them a bunch of samples, and turns out I brought a few too many,” John says, shifting from foot to foot. “They were just going to ash them and pitch them anyway, and that—I didn’t really want to waste the wood like that.”

“No,” Melissa says. She smiles, very small but very warm, and then she walks around and leans up and takes John’s face between her hands. And she gives him a good, long kiss, the kind of kiss that would make you want to get home sooner. “It’s beautiful, John. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” John says. He grins at her, leaning their brows together, and then laughs under his breath. “For the record, I asked them before you two called. But I’m thinking it should help if you ever get an idea like that again. Stiles pretty much uses up all of the office’s replacement phone quota—”

She hits him on the shoulder, hard, and then kisses his cheek. Then Melissa walks away, cradling that phone case like it’s jewelry. “I’m putting this on mine before anything else happens,” she says, mock-glaring over her shoulder. “We’ll see if it stands up as good as it looks.”

John would say something about him being the wrong person to be mad at, but just then the microwave goes off. He goes over and gets out the plates, and he’s setting them on the counter when he realizes Chris still hasn’t said anything.

Chris looks up right then, like he senses John’s concern, and grimaces. Then shakes his head a little as John comes up next to him. He’s still tensed up, and when John touches his shoulder, he starts. Then takes a deep breath; he’s at least turning towards John, even if he’s not relaxing.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “No, I’m not—it’s a great gift, John. It’s…it’s great. I just…I just don’t know what I can give—and I know we had this talk, all right? I know you’re all right with it, it’s just…I wish I could…”

John fights back the urge to sigh, and instead just wraps his arm around Chris’ waist, pulling the other man into him. Chris is stiff about it for a second, and then he starts softening, turning his head into John’s shoulder, even as his mouth stays twisted up with frustration. Sometimes John feels like he’s taking advantage—with the werewolf genes, and whatever training the Argents put Chris through—but if he can push the right buttons to get Chris’ body to relax, it makes it a little easier to talk the man’s mind into easing off, too.

“It was a good phone call,” John says. He looks bland as Chris shoots him a look, then snorts and kisses Chris’ temple. Then behind his ear, just as Chris unbends enough for an annoyed grunt. “And I like the tree, too.”

“You know, you are _such_ an asshole sometimes,” Chris mutters. “I know what you’re doing, John, and…and I appreciate it, but seriously, you are.”

John pulls back so they’re looking each other in the eye. “Well, I’m being serious too. About both of those. We used to have a fig tree, actually. Claudia and I planted one when Stiles was born. She liked figs, and it was sort of practice for him, once he was old enough, and…anyway, it’s a nice gift. Thank you.”

Chris blinks hard. For a second he looks almost mad, and then he suddenly exhales and slumps into John. “Goddamn it, John, you just…I didn’t even…well, you’re welcome. Just…Jesus. I just…I just heard a sapling’s the gift for celebrations, with guardians, and I was actually going to do it at Christmas but Melissa talked me out of that. She—she did look a little funny about it, but I didn’t want to push.”

“I don’t think it was what you’re thinking. I’m guessing she reminded you it was too late in the year to plant them?” John says. When Chris nods, John sighs and slides his hand up Chris’ back, till he can rub at the man’s nape again. “She doesn’t know about us planting it for Stiles’ birth—I don’t think we ever mentioned that to her. He was working with Claudia’s tree when we met her and Scott. We did all love figs, and then we were in all these cold-weather posts, and I bitched a lot to Melissa about never being able to get them. She’s remembering that, I bet.”

Melissa comes back just then, but picks up on the tension immediately and ditches whatever she’d been about to say. She frowns at John, pausing in the doorway, and then comes in when Chris looks over at her.

“Something wrong?” she says.

“No, just saying I liked the fig tree,” John says. “It reminds me of the one we used to have.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” she says slowly. 

She rubs her hand against her leg and John wants to say she’s looking nervous, except that’s such an odd thing with him and Melissa. She was close with Claudia too, and they both mourned her, and then helped each other move on, and she’s never been that worried about things like replacing Claudia, or stirring up old wounds. She’s smart enough to know she doesn’t have to; John’s pretty sure even if he was stupid enough to give her that impression, which he doesn’t think he has, she would know better than to believe it.

“It’s all right. I like it,” John says, frowning at her, and then at Chris, who’s relaxed a lot but who still looks like he’s thinking about taking the tree back. “I do. And you know, for once I can actually plant it.”

Melissa raises her brows, and just that little quirk lets him know she’s shaken off whatever was bugging her. “You’ve gotten trees before. What did you do with all of them?”

“Well, I couldn’t keep them, it’s not like we could really do that kind of thing, with how we were moving around,” John says. “Usually I dropped them off with whatever office I was at. I assume they got planted somewhere.”

“So you regifted,” Chris says, very dryly. Then he nudges into the side of John’s head, just as John’s turning to glare at him. He’s getting loose again, slowly but surely. “So we’d better watch you plant this one, that’s what you’re saying.”

He tilts his head just enough to see John’s face, and then drops it to lean against John’s jaw, laughing quietly. Melissa has a good chuckle too, as she grabs her plate and then rummages around in the drawer for utensils.

“It is a very, very nice fig tree, and Chris spent a lot of time researching which ones work in our climate,” she scolds. “If it goes anywhere but your yard, I’m going to be very disappointed in you.”

“You want, you can pick out the spot,” John offers. He takes the fork she holds out to him and hands it to Chris, and then pushes Chris’ plate in front of the man.

“You sure you want to give that up to her?” Chris says. He’s still resting his head against John’s jaw, even as he pops some casserole into his mouth. “You’ll have to live with it for a while. Fig trees are built to last.”

John shrugs. “Fine by me. I’ve been moving around for long enough. I’m ready to put down roots.”

He’s about to eat a forkful when he says that, except when he lifts his head, his and Melissa’s eyes meet. She looks—she’s happy, all right, but she looks kind of stunned, too. And then she smiles at him and he doesn’t eat that piece of casserole because yeah, he’s known Melissa for ages, and he forgets sometimes that she’s beautiful because he just knows that. But the way her eyes are lit right then, he remembers.

“That was terrible, John,” she says. She shakes her head, and then leans over and saves his shirt-tails from getting food on them. “And now I know I’m not here for your sense of humor.”

“What—oh.” And then John grimaces, because that is a pretty bad pun. “I actually wasn’t trying.”

“Which makes it worse,” Melissa mutters. She stuffs her mouth full of casserole, still beautiful but a little more in the chipmunk line, and then stretches over, looking at something on John’s plate.

Both John and Chris frown at her, and John’s about to ask when Melissa digs out a big chunk of sausage from John’s portion, then eats it. When John makes a noise of protest, Melissa flicks him a look, and then finds another piece of sausage and moves it to Chris’ plate.

“I know how you eat when you’re in D.C.,” she mumbles. “I don’t usually side with Stiles on food, but I don’t think you need these.”

“Seriously, Mel?” John says.

Before Melissa can say anything, Chris reaches over to her plate and stabs a sausage chunk with his fork. He holds it up in front of their faces, pauses to give John a side look, and then eats it himself.

Melissa pushes at him, then falls against his shoulder, cackling. Chris grins and sways into it, giving John the duty of steadying the pair of them, and then almost spoils it with a fit of remorse when he tries to give John the piece Melissa put on his plate.

“Nah, keep it,” John says, pushing his hand back. “I’ll get it out of you two later.”

“Sounds like a promise, Stilinski,” Melissa says, still giggling.

John goes back to his reduced-sausage casserole, shaking his head, and smiling anyway. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I guess it is. You mind?”

And he doesn’t get that forkful either, but considering it’s Chris kissing him, he doesn’t really mind. “No,” Chris says. “Glad you’re back, John. We missed you.”

“Yeah, so did I.” John kisses him, then pulls him by the neck so that they’re pressing their temples together, and John can see past him to a softly smiling Melissa. “D.C. wasn’t too bad this time, but it’s good to be home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Marcella is from the movie _Grosse Pointe Blank_. She's concerned about Stiles ever meeting up with her former employer, Martin Blank, who is a neurotic, semi-psychotic professional hitman.
> 
> Angela Dodson and John Constantine are from the _Constantine_ movie.
> 
> Deaton's character in the show really irritates me because it posits him as a good person (and the actor is fairly convincing about it), but makes that completely implausible, what with the not telling people useful information, and only getting harassed by villains when Scott's character arc needs a heroic moment (also, what, he's a druid and doesn't know how to defend himself against fellow druids?), and literally knowing the backstory of every other character but somehow, these people don't cross-check with each other and find out about him? I mean, his status as an Emissary is _not_ a secret if Gerard Argent and all the other packs know he's an Emissary; it just means Derek's incredibly dense (and so is Peter, since it seems he only figured out Deaton's status after he resurrected). Whatever, yet another botched show retcon.
> 
> Anyway, so Emissaries don't exist here. Deaton worked for the government, liked Talia a lot but his first priority was his government duties, and he had to update his supervisors and blah blah blah so none of this dumb secret-keeping just for the sake of giving Derek the worst life ever, he was held accountable when he fucked up, and he definitely had to explain himself to somebody. 
> 
> Werewolves, and other supernatural creatures who have the outdoors as an important part of their lifestyle, are treated as stake-holders in terms of ecological management of shared resources, analogizing a little to how the federal agencies tasked with overseeing natural resources work with both ranchers and Native American tribes. So I see a big part of John's job as managing all these parties, and not just enforcing federal policies.
> 
> The Nemeton is very powerful but also very geographically limited, and isn't very effective outside of the preserve itself. However, John's office actually has responsibility for the whole county (because ecology doesn't respect invisible boundaries!); it's just the preserve is the biggest stretch of federally-protected land in it so he's based there. Also, depending on the problem, you may need to go a fair distance from the preserve to tackle it, so that's why John still sees it as necessary to have a designated hunter, even with Stiles bonding with the tree.
> 
> ETA: Missing scenes in Leaflets [32](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4709111/chapters/13766701) and [33](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4709111/chapters/13766731).


End file.
